


take me to the feeling

by ameliajessica



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Honeymoon, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliajessica/pseuds/ameliajessica
Summary: "They’re both kind of stupid because it takes them a solid 43 minutes of listing, and Google Maps-ing, and Lonely Planet-ing to remember, hey, we’re fucking Magicians, and we’re exhausted, and we don’t owe anything to anyone after what we’ve been through."Two boys get married, and travel the world.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 44
Kudos: 190





	take me to the feeling

**Author's Note:**

> this was written within an afternoon, powered by spite. it's maybe the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written, but i can't bring myself to care in light of the week we've had
> 
> the locations were mostly chosen on the basis that i've been to them, and done the things described, but that doesn't mean i can confirm any weather or other inaccuracies. i hope you can look past it, but just... don't think too hard about it, okay? 
> 
> to anyone who cares: i AM working on the other magicians fic i have on the go, but i'm doing nanowrimo, so there's a ton of other ideas floating around my head - including magicians stuff coming your way very soon! thank you for being patient 
> 
> thanks always to liz and nicole, who are lovely and great and helpful, always. when i told them i wrote a silly fluffy fic with almost no sex and just cute stuff they were so excited, and that's real support

They go to Mexico.

Well, _first_ they go to Mexico. Eliot’s kind of been all over the place, though he doesn’t recall all of them with the same level of clarity, and Quentin’s barely left New Jersey (they don’t count that brief, depressing stint in England), so it’s a real mixed bag of bucket-list places combined with ‘what actually makes a good honeymoon destination’ criteria.

They’re both kind of stupid because it takes them a solid 43 minutes of listing, and Google Maps-ing, and Lonely Planet-ing to remember, _hey, we’re fucking Magicians, and we’re exhausted, and we don’t owe anything to anyone after what we’ve been through._

So they go to Mexico.

Again, rest and restoration is pretty high on Quentin’s priority list, and he’s always kind of been fascinated by resorts, so he floats that idea. This is surprising to Eliot, which is surprising to Quentin—that anything about him still surprises Eliot.

“I am deeply obsessed with everything about you,” Eliot admits, “but I didn’t see this one coming.”

“Really?”

“It’s so... bourgeois,” Eliot teases. “I would have pegged you for one of those who wants to_ experience the actual culture, _by frequenting all of the _actual cultural tourist traps_.”

“Shut up,” Quentin says, because yeah, maybe once upon a time. “There’s just something kind of nice about the idea of just... being, for like a week, maybe. I think I would get bored eventually but, just. You, a book, a beach or pool and a lot of fruit cocktails? That sounds like heaven, right now.”

Eliot tilts his head at him, smiling at him in that fond way he’s done for over fifty years now, more or less.

“What?” says Quentin.

“You put me first,” he says softly. With a little bit of wonder.

Quentin scoffs. “Well, duh,” he says, and gets peppered with kisses in response.

*

It’s the largest room he’s ever stayed in, by far. He spends a while just looking at everything, trying out all the buttons by the door to figure out what they do. He didn’t grow up with a lot. His mom and her girlfriend seemed to take glamorous getaways all the time, because of her job, but Quentin mostly did a lot of camping.

He’s explaining this to Eliot, who’s penciling them in for a reservation at the seafood restaurant on an iPad that they got given upon checking in, and making his way through the wardrobe. There are two robes in there, impossibly fluffy, and a note saying they’ll be fined if they take it home, which sucks because Quentin touches it and immediately wants to take it home and never wear anything else. He might as well make as much time with it now, so he strips then and there and gets into it, while Eliot goes to find ice for their champagne.

Eliot walks in, carrying the bucket by the handle. Takes one look at him, and stops. Rooted to the stop.

“You like it?” Quentin says, stuffing his hand in the pockets. It’s too big for him, reaching lower than halfway down his calves, but he kind of loves it for that, drowning in softness. “It’s a little warm for Mexican weather but fuck, it’s so cozy, I kind of love it? Anyway, we have time to go the pool before dinner, right? What time did you make the reservation for?”

Eliot places the bucket on the desk and walks over to Quentin, putting his arms on his shoulders.

His fingers feel at the material, thoughtful, and Quentin says, “Soft, right?”

Eliot doesn’t answer. He undoes the loose knot Quentin had secured, and, just as Quentin is about to tell him there’s one for him too, Eliot throws the robe on the floor and drops to his knees.

*

They don’t make their reservation.

*

After two days, Quentin goes out onto their balcony. It’s late in the day, past midday, but they slept through breakfast. He calls up room service, choosing a selection of brunch items that Eliot will likely call dementedly random, but fuck it, he’s on his honeymoon, and he’ll eat onion rings in bed if he wants to. Eliot will bitch about it, then eat some fruit and steal from Quentin’s plate anyway.

It’s so peaceful. Idyllic to the point of being kind of creepy, but peaceful. They don’t really partake in the activities the rest of the guests covet, like boat trips or wind-surfing lessons, but he definitely sees value in pretending that this is just his life for a while. Just fucking and eating and laughing, all in one giant bed they basically haven’t left since they arrived.

He loves his life, even if this isn’t really his life. It’s not anyone’s life. It’s not real. Life doesn’t have people who deliver onion rings whenever you demand it, no extra cost. It’s not the perfect amount of brilliantly sunny with a gentle breeze to cool you off. You don’t get to stare at an ocean this blue, every day, and don’t have anything else to do except think about how much you love your husband.

It’s almost as if it’s enchanted, which... well, it _could _be, of course, but it just feels like they got lucky with the weather.

It’s believable. They’ve gotten so lucky so many times.

“Quentin,” he hears from inside. He turns around. Eliot is sitting up in bed. His hair sticks up in a million different directions. He’s wearing his deepest, brattiest, most _Quentin Coldwater_ frown.

“What’s up?”

“You’re not in bed,” Eliot says. He pulls aside the covers to reveal his lap, indeed empty and devoid of a Quentin.

“My bad. I’ll make it up to you,” says Quentin, and goes to put himself in that lap, where he belongs.

*

On their third day they decide to leave their bed, at least for a little, to go the pool.

It occurs to Quentin that he should probably show signs of life to their friends – though, they’ve certainly got enough of a reputation among their friends that it probably isn’t too surprising that they haven’t checked in because they’ve been too busy having sex. They were like that _before _they got married, but that was a lot to do with the whole ‘coming back from possession and then the dead’ of it all.

He takes a quick selfie with the sea behind him. A breeze hits at the right moment, and fluffs his hair all over the place, and he’s smiling like an absolute goon because he’s so happy, but whatever, he sends it.

_Wear sunscreen! _she texts back.

_Eliot’s on it_, he says.

_Oh, I bet he is ;)._

_Jesus, Jules. _

_Whatever, you know I’m right. _

He sends it to Margo too, for good measure.

_Ah, the nerd emerges from three days of fucking to finally break his radio silence._

_*Lovemaking_, he types back.

_Gross_, she says. Then, two heart emojis, so he knows she’s happy for them, actually.

*

They do take a day trip to Mexico City, while they’re there because the guilt of not experience the culture does start to gnaw at him, but they miss fucking each other into oblivion so much that they don’t go again. Who cares? Mexico City will be there forever, but there was once time where neither of them were, and they’re not done being grateful for that.

*

Next is Rome, which is a pitiful mistake to do in August. All you can do is walk around, look at the historical landmarks, which are beautiful, but Quentin misses a time in his life when he wasn’t dripping in sweat.

Even Eliot, who relishes the opportunity to walk around with half-open, breezy shirts, mentions that it has been punishingly warm.

So they invest in cheap, tacky mini-fans, cover the basics, eat their weight in gelato and then try and spend most of their afternoons napping in the hotel, then exploring in the evenings. They walk around hand-in-hand across cobblestone paths, and the quiet, the lack of tourist groups, does bring a different air to the city. 

Quentin wonders how much of Rome was aided by magic and how much was human genius. The aqueducts, the coliseum, even the food. All of it is so ancient, so powerful, the magic influence is intangible but... present. Certainly at least possible.

He chooses not to investigate it, even though he could. 

Sometimes it’s nice to think about how much humans, ordinary people, have managed to achieve on their own.

*

Knowing Eliot to be a once-aspiring actor, Quentin suggests Edinburgh for August, so they can see the Fringe Festival. Eliot, of all things, got shy.

_“Oh—well I mean, we live in New York, there’s always going to be theater – so we—you don’t have to.”_

_Quentin laughed. “Eliot,” he says, hand on Eliot’s mouth. “Do you want to go?”_

_Eliot, eyes wide, nodded. Sheepish._

_Quentin smiled. “Then let’s go, El. I want to go with you.”_

_Eliot’s eyes went soft, then dark, as he mouthed along Quentin’s hand until he was lightly nipping at Quentin’s wrist. “Let’s go,” Eliot agreed, licking into Quentin’s mouth, “but let me blow you first.” _

Again, he can’t remember much of England from when they went, but Edinburgh feels old in a way none of those places had, even Italy. There, the oldness was preserved, locked in stasis so it could be enjoyed and remembered. Edinburgh’s _oldness _was built into the newness. There for you to see just how long everything had been standing. Banks and Starbuckses and pubs that like they belong from a different century.

There’s an insane amount of people. There’s a long road called The Mile, which fills up almost exclusively with keen actors and comedians shoving flyers your way, charming you with words and songs, so that you come see their show. Quentin and Eliot dutifully take them all, then spread them out on the floor later to decide which ones to go to. Some of them are in big theatres, while others are in any spare closet a pub can spare to rent out the space. They vary in quality, but either way, Eliot comes alive with it, and Quentin feels thrilled that he was right, he nailed it, he _knew _Eliot would love it. And Quentin himself loves this glimpse into the Eliot _before _Quentin, before Brakebills.

“Is this fun for you?” Eliot asks, at the end of the week.

“Eliot, just because you’re having a good time doesn’t mean it’s—a bad time for me. I’m enjoying myself too, I promise, but I also don’t want you to worry.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, nodding robotically. Still not quite convinced.

So Quentin tells him about what it means to him, to see Eliot in his element like this. The Eliot he would have been in high school. “It’s like—it’s selfish, honestly, because it’s like... like now there’s no part of you that I haven’t seen. Every version of you is a you that I’ve been with. You—you’re mine, like you’ve never been anyone else’s.”

He blushes bright red, he can _feel _his cheeks hot with it. Eliot blinks, opens his mouth once, then twice. He takes Quentin in his arms, all but fucking dipping him, as they kiss. In the middle of a cemetery, where they’d stopped for lunch. It was weird, but other people seemed to be doing it, so they bought a pizza and walked around. There was a grave where a dog was buried by his owner, and the dog’s statue was right outside.

“I love you so much,” Eliot said into Quentin’s mouth. “Thank you, baby.”

On their last day, Quentin asks for a picture in front of the café JK Rowling wrote _Harry Potter _in, and poses with both hands up raised with middle fingers. Eliot cackles behind his phone as he takes it.

“You’re my dream man, you fucking brat,” Eliot says.

*

They make the decision avoid Europe, or the northern hemisphere, really, through September, having not enjoyed their time boiling in the Roman sun, so they go as far down south as they can without freezing to death.

Standing at the top of Table Mountain, Quentin gets misty because of how beautiful it is. Hiking up is free, but the cable car ride up is half-price after six o’clock, which is perfect because it means they get to watch the sunset if they kill enough time once they’re up there.

There’s a sweet little café at the top – a tourist trap, of course, with everything three times the price it would be if it weren’t the only option at the top of a goddamn mountain, but the iced coffee is pretty good, and they split some passion fruit cake.

The sky turns a series of colors each more insane than the other, and Quentin tries desperately to commit it to memory, tries to always remember that Earth can look like this, entirely naturally. Has looked like this forever and will look like it until the world itself ends.

At the start of the day, they’d bought a ticket to the bus that tours around the city. Had taken in Cape Town with bleary, jet-lagged eyes and tried to pay as much attention as possible while slumped against each other on the top deck.

They take the bus back to the hotel, which is the long way round, obviously, but it doesn’t matter, and besides, seeing the city at night is a different experience. They plan to go back to the hotel for dinner, because it’s included in their reservation, but end up getting off early because there’s a charming seafood restaurant by the harbor, dotted with outdoor lights.

Quentin gets something called a calamari steak, and feeds it to Eliot because it’s so delicious. Eliot eats a pasta dish, and chooses a white wine for them to share, which they’re told is local, and is absolutely delicious. It’s all delicious, and kind of a steal at the price.

It’s a mix of a city getaway and a beach one. After dinner they walk over to the beach to feel the sand between their toes.

“I always loved this,” says Quentin. “When me and my dad and Julia would go to the shore, Julia always wanted to spend the whole time swimming, but I got sunburn so badly once that I kind of got scared of being out of the shade for too long. But I used to just... I loved walking on the sand.”

“The now-infamous Jersey Shore?”

“The very same.”

“I have a lot of questions.” Eliot, reality TV show junkie, has the brightest eyes he’s seen since their wedding.

“It’s not—it used to be _really nice_ but now it’s just crowded with tourists like you, trying to see Snooki or whoever.”

“I can’t tell you how hot it is that you can name one member of the cast MTV’s _Jersey Shore_.”

“Oh really?” says Quentin. He wracks his brain for more. “Um. Fuck. I feel like there was something Italian—_Mario? _Or, um, Steve? Stevie, maybe?”

Eliot rests his temple to Quentin’s head. “Oh honey, I have so much to teach you.”

“Well it’s a good thing we’re married then,” Quentin says, trying for coy but ending up too excited. He’ll listen to Eliot talk about whatever he wants for the rest of their lives. He can’t wait to be sat on matching rocking chairs while Eliot tries to remember the names of all the housewives of yore. “Convenient, I mean.”

Eliot smiles, so wide. “You,” he says, like he has more to say, but choosing to kiss Quentin instead of finishing his sentence.

*

In Rio they stay in an Airbnb. They miss the act of cooking together, even though they never did it anywhere else but Fillory, and cooking in Fillory was so much cooking as it was throwing things in a cauldron and heating it up over a fire. It’s nice to have a home just for them, even if they’re happy to stay in the penthouse until they find the perfect place. It’s a strange thing for them – any domesticity is. Both new and old. Exciting but familiar. Borrowed, like the old saying goes.

They drink coffee in the mornings and afternoons, and caipirinhas in the evening, which, as it turns out, can vary in taste depending on how much you pay or how generous the person in feeling. Quentin likes it to be just shy of a tangy lemonade, but Eliot likes it stronger, with lots of alcohol and not much sugar. Each time they accompany it with desserts made with chocolate and condensed milk, and it’s all perfect.

The street of the flat has a _feira_ every Tuesday, so they buy fresh legumes and bring them back along with fish and potatoes. Eliot takes the reins, like he did in Fillory, but Quentin was always an excellent chopper. He enjoys the passive, methodical nature of it. He enjoys Eliot singing along to his Taylor Swift playlist, absentmindedly, just from having heard Quentin play it so much during their vacation.

They roast all of it together with fresh herbs and a ton of olive oil, then swirl balsamic vinegar on it once it’s out of the oven. There’s a little table, which Eliot sets a magic candle on – one that’ll never burn out, or set fire to anything if it tips over (a fair preventative measure when Quentin Coldwater is your husband).

“We’ve had a lot of seafood,” Quentin points out.

“Are you sick of it?”

Quentin hums. “Not at all, it’s kind of cheaper than in New York everywhere we’ve went. But are there any foods you want to try? Are you craving anything?”

Eliot grins, leans over, and licks up Quentin’s cheek. Quentin yelps, wiping at his cheek, but he’s smiling, he can’t stop smiling, “Jesus, Eliot. _Other _than that. Like, a dish.”

“You _are_ a dish, baby,” Eliot says, getting up from his chair. He kneels in front of Quentin, in the candlelight. The way Quentin had proposed, once Eliot had already. He’d always known Eliot would want to be the one, so he waited for Eliot to do it first, and then surprised him, in front of all their friends.

_“You’ve asked me,” he’d said, “but I want to ask you too. I want to hear you tell me you want to be with me forever, the way I do. I want to know you choose me, the way I have and always will. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you Eliot. I don’t think anyone ever has. I’ve never been a better person than when I’ve been yours. I’ll marry you, Eliot, but will you marry me?”_

_“Jesus, you two,” said Margo, and Julia had grabbed her upper arm, hushing her, but Margo had happy tears in her eyes, locked on Eliot’s shocked, confused, and then overwhelmed face._

_“Q,” Eliot said, breathless with disbelief. Quentin had produced a ring, just like the one he wore now. The one he was going to wear always, now. _

_“Well, answer the damn boy, El,” said Margo from across the table. “The word is ‘yes’.”_

_They laughed. Quentin kept his eyes on Eliot, even as the image of him became blurry with his tears._

_“Well said, Bambi,” said Eliot, having composed himself a little. He cupped Quentin’s face, hand spread over Quentin’s neck. “Quentin. My love. Nothing, _nothing _would make me happier.”_

Quentin had kissed him, then. He kisses him in Rio, from his chair, reaching down for Eliot. Then they get up when they’re finished eating and he kisses him by the sink, Eliot with his hands washing the dishes and unable to hold him and making it for it by pressing Quentin against the counter. He kisses Eliot in the bed, in all sorts of different positions, seeking out his mouth whenever he can.

Because marrying Eliot means doing this forever, as much as he wants, and he intends to have his fill.

*

Disneyworld is corporate and capitalist and so damn surreal but they have so much fun it’s stupid. It’s fun _because _it’s stupid. There’s no world to save, no magic to restore, no dead loved ones to undead. Just them and all the fucking overpriced popcorn they can eat, which doesn’t taste nearly as good as it smells (it turns out, they Google later, the smell is pumped into the air artificial, and not actually wafting through from the carts themselves, but they don’t regret it once they find that out).

It’s October, so pretty empty and they enchant their entry cards to have fast passes for everything. They also do it for a few families next in line with them, because they’re not totally selfish. Quentin has to close his eyes when the rollercoasters ride to the top before rushing down, and Eliot lets him squeeze his hand tightly without complaining once.

Eliot insists Quentin has to buy a pair of ears, the ones with Mickey’s magician hat from _Fantasia_, and then insists he looks cute enough that he needs to send it to Margo. Quentin looks very grumpy in it, and is rewarded with many kisses for his troubles. Eliot buys one for himself as well, declaring, “Now we match!” when he puts it on like it’s something cool or special or even innovative and fuck, fine, Quentin’s fine with it. He’s fine with whatever Eliot wants to do for as long as he’s on this crazy, stupid world. 

He’s even fine with Eliot making them wear the honeymoon badge as they walk around, proudly on the front of their shirts. He calls Quentin _my husband_ at any given opportunity, to other guests or to the staff – _sorry, can you take a picture of me and my husband? You can go ahead, I want to ride with my husband. Hello, me and my husband would like a snow cone each, please_, which still feels so insane and new and the fucking _best_. Hell yeah, Quentin’s a husband. He’s even got one.

*

“Just _try_ them, Q.”

“_El_, it’s fine, you can have them, I’ll get something else.”

“Be brave, baby. Come on. You can do it.”

_God_, Quentin rolls his eyes, eating from the tiny, three-pronged fork Eliot points towards him. He eats the damn snails. He knows Eliot’s right – they’re in Paris, and he is brave, and it’s just what’s done. It would sound pretty lame to go back to America and not have at least _tried _them.

Eliot watches as he chews them, patient but excited, “So?”

“It’s fine,” Quentin grumbles, pursing his lips, because of course it’s _good_, you could cook anything in butter and garlic and parsley and it’ll taste _good_. That’s just... the laws of nature. The texture is still weird though. But Eliot beams. “Can I have my duck now?”

“Yes, dear,” says Eliot, and allows Quentin to not eat any more of them. Though he does feed Quentin the rest of his meal.

It’s snowing, even though it’s only November and it never really snows that much in Paris anyway, according to Eliot. But, you know, climate change. It’s a bit of a bummer if you think about it too much, but it sure does look beautiful. At least it’s a way the world is ending that has nothing to do with them, for once.

They decide against climbing up the steps to Sacre Coeur, because they’re a real icy slip-and-slide, and the cable car is included in their travel pass for the next few days they have. It’s so cloudy that they see jack shit when they get there, but it’s pretty in its own way, to see so much bright, pure white spread all across the horizons, and the rooftops that are still visible. Montmartre itself is like a dream. A little cottage village in the middle of a wide, sprawling city like Paris.

They shuffle back down, sharing a mulled wine between them carefully. Quentin almost eats shit more times than they can count, because he’s wearing the entirely wrong shoes, but Eliot always puts him back on his feet, either with his powers or his arms or his hands, a little awkward in his gloves.

“What would I do without you?” Quentin says dryly, a little embarrassed and trying to cover up for it. He’s tired, flushed and cold at the same time, and starting to feel a bit like a mess. Eliot had been so excited for Paris, and Quentin can’t help but feel like he’s spending all of his time looking after Quentin.

Eliot tilts his head at him, a little exasperated, like he can tell how Quentin is feeling and doesn’t quite approve. “Oh, baby, we’ll never have to know ever again.”

That Quentin cheers up. He holds on tighter to Eliot. One hand in his, while the other wraps around Eliot’s arm. They go looking for macarons.

*

They try London again for Christmas.

English Christmas food is fucking weird – there’s a pudding they light on fire and a pastry called a ‘mince pie’ that’s made with what tastes like mostly raisins. But the decorations are slightly more tasteful, controlled than the loud, American sensibilities they’re used to. Quentin kind of misses the cheese of it all, but it feels more grown up like this. They follow a route one evening to hit all the street lights in central London and go shopping for souvenirs. Eliot gets Margo some perfume and hand cream from Liberty, and Quentin buys tea from Covent Garden for Julia, and there’s an assortment of cookies – sorry, _biscuits – _that they get for everyone else.

In Hyde Park there’s a fair called Winter Wonderland, where they buy an overpriced hotdog and hot cider. The rides all look a little... suspect, but there’s a sturdy-enough-seeming Ferris wheel, with closed cars, that’s _not _as overpriced as the London Eye had been when they looked online, so they go on that, to get a view of London.

“We can’t see anything,” Quentin laughs, and Eliot does too. What a stupid idea to do this at night.

“No, come on, sure you can.” Eliot starts pointing. “That’s Big Ben.”

“No it’s not.” It’s dark as shit but Quentin remembers the map well enough to know it’d be impossible from where they are, high up or not.

“You can’t see it, so you can’t correct me,” Eliot says lightly. Oh, it’s the teasing voice. He’s being teased. That’s what’s happening.

“Oh, I see.”

“Tower Bridge is behind there.”

“_Is_ it now?”

Eliot leans closer, lips on Quentin’s ear, pointing in front of them. “Keep looking. Can you see anything?”

“I, uh—”

Eliot sucks at a spot of skin. Quentin cries, clutches Eliot closer.

“You have to be quiet, baby,” says Eliot. “The other car will hear us.”

“Put up a ward, jackass,” Quentin gasps out, taking off his glove with his teeth and feeling out for Eliot’s cock, under his coat, tucked in his pants, then his underwear. There are too many fucking layers between them. Quentin tears at them aggressively, moaning as loud as he pleases when Eliot gets his mouth on him. The cold stings at his hands, so he buries them in Eliot’s curls for warmth. 

The ride comes to a stop, “conveniently”, and very randomly to any of the Muggle employees who can’t get it to work again for the life of them, until it starts working again, seemingly on its own. But you know, these carnival rides, they’re so unreliable. You get what you pay for.

*

They go to Australia for New Year’s, mostly to hit the second-to-last continent they haven’t hit yet, and to obnoxiously text their friends that they’re in the future – that last part is Quentin’s idea, and Eliot laughs.

“That’s so fucking nerdy. I can’t believe how attracted to you I am—you, a total doofus.” He pecks Quentin’s cheek, loud and ridiculous. _Mwah_. “Let’s go, then. Margo will hate it.”

Margo does hate it. She texts Quentin, _You fucking loser_, and Eliot, _You are a bigger loser for marrying him._

Then, in their group chat, at midnight EST, _Happy New Year from the goddamn past. Come back soon, Fen misses you_.

It’s the first time Quentin really feels a pang for home, but it’s short-lived. He’s no longer afraid that people will stop loving him if he stops being around. Stops being useful to them. He doesn’t have to do anything, save anything, to warrant existing. He’s just Quentin Coldwater. Eliot loves him, and he loves Eliot. And he loves their friends and they love him. And he loves their penthouse that doesn’t belong to them, and he will be back soon, with stories and presents for all them. There’s time.

He allows himself one moment of missing Margo, because he loves her so much, and Fen, who Margo is hiding behind emotionally, obviously, but she probably does miss them both, even though she barely knows Quentin.

One moment, and then he rolls over in bed, where he’d been taking an afternoon nap with Eliot to sleep out the hottest part of the day. Eliot makes a happy noise in his sleep and pulls him closer. He has a spouse. A partner in love and life, which they get to build together and make anything of.

It’s a wide world, and home will always be where Eliot is.

*

Tokyo is a noisy, crowded nightmare but Quentin loves every second of it. It’s pure organized chaos. Like his own brain – working in its own broken, messy way. Tokyo shouldn’t be as functional as it is, but... it is. It’s a little comforting. He tells Eliot this, who gets a complicated, somewhat sad look on his face and oh, Quentin feels bad. That’s not—he didn’t mean for that to happen. Luckily, Eliot lets him kiss it off.

It’s also way bigger than they expect it to be. Despite the fact that they’ve travelled the world, Quentin still had that New Yorker arrogance, that expectation that everywhere else in the world is smaller, somehow. So they stay longer than they did basically everywhere else, to make the most of their time. They buy a train pass to explore others cities too.

Quentin really, really loves Japan. The organized thing doesn’t get old, and does wonders for his anxiety. He loves that the trains ride smoothly, that their snacks come so well-packaged. It’s all just... neat. Like, in the literal sense. Plus, he’d picked up a little Japanese at undergrad and relishes in being able to use it sparingly.

He’s a little irresponsible with his energy, wearing himself out to the bone nearly every day, but barely noticing because he’s so happy. There’s just so much to do and see and taste – seriously, it’s the best food Quentin’s had this whole time. Even the coffee from the vending machines that cost a dollar are great, and he marvels at them coming out hot in his hands every time.

It usually takes Eliot telling him he’s tired for him to notice. Or, he doesn’t tell him so much as he will stop Quentin in the middle of talking, stroke his cheek and say, “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, baby? Let’s go back home.”

They wearily make their way back to the hotel, where Eliot strips him of his clothes and puts him in bed with him. They curl towards each other, Quentin’s feet only just brushing Eliot’s legs, because they put their faces on the same level on their pillows. He's so looked after, and so happy. What's crazy is that Eliot is happy too. What's crazier is that Quentin knows it, _believes _he makes Eliot happy. He'd never thought it'd be possible, but here he is. 

“I’d marry you once a week if I could,” he says to Eliot, feeling blurry with sleep.

Eliot laughs. “Sounds expensive,” he says, brushing his nose against his. “But I’m game. We can get married over and over again, as much as you’d like.”

They sit in the closeness for a bit. Eliot isn’t quite as sleepy, because he’s watching Quentin, eyes steady and calm. His hand rests on Quentin’s bare hip, which stirs a feeling in his abdomen a little, but not enough to get him to wake all the way up.

“We can have sex tomorrow morning,” Quentin declares. “I’m too tired.”

“Ooh, do you promise?” Eliot says, and he might be laughing at him still, but Quentin’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. Eliot’s neck and chest smell so good, like the fancy soap he bought today, the one he had Quentin choose, wanting a scent Quentin liked. He puts his face into that space. Feeling possessive, because he can be. This is his. This is his for his life.

“I promise,” he says. “I do.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone cares, the selfie quentin sends to julia/margo looks like THIS: https://www.instagram.com/p/Br5MuwJhvKm/?igshid=1g3rlf9ye59go


End file.
